When the dust settled in the kitchen at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters—Celine was drying her eyes from laughter—Ellie was anxious to take off in her Cessna A185F Skywagon—and Rusty barricaded the exit with his body.
“No one leaves this room until I get some answers,” Rusty announced.
“I already gave you the skinny, Rustabaga,” replied Celine. “Your ex-sweetie-pie has her teat in a ringer, and Waylayer here is gonna go and bless the rains in Africa. I told her there’s more than one way to swing a dead cat by its tail—you know—maybe take Neville along to part any impending waters.”
After a deep breath and a mega eye roll, Rusty responded, “Is this true, El? Sally’s in some sort of danger? What do you know?”
“She knows it’s time to haul ass, Russickle, that’s what she knows. Like the time I was…”
“Celine,” interrupted Rusty, “Can we please get Ellie’s version?”
“Sure, but I was just trying to…”
“Rusty, part of what Celine is saying is correct,” began Ellie. “I have received word from HQ that Eagle One has been—let me say—compromised.”
“Don’t make me guess, Ellie. Has she gone missing?” asked Rusty. “Or worse?”
“My intel is limited, hey. Orders have me high-tailing it to Lake Kariba asap. They want me at the site of the Tiger Fish Tournament to spearhead a search party.”
“Just tell me, how bad is it?” pleaded Rusty.
“You want the truth—fine,” answered Ellie with impatience. “She’s been MIA for five hours—and the Code10 that I referred to is not a good number. It’s possible there was a target put on Sally, and it’s also thinkable that whoever put a bounty on her was successful. That’s the truth—now I got to go.”
“I’m joining you,” replied Rusty. “Just give me five minutes to grab a bag.”
“That’s not happening,” countered Ellie. “No way, no how can I get you cleared on this mission. Hell, if HQ knew that I’d just shared their intel, it would be my ass. No—you stay here—end of discussion.”
Speaking of getting your ass handed to you… Sally Squatsnfishes was momentarily on the losing end of a tug-o-war with a Nile crocodile weighing over a thousand pounds and stretching more than ten feet in length. She had exactly one thrashing burst when the croc grabbed her pant leg and pulled her under, but then went into training mode realizing how steep the odds were stacked against her.
Stay calm, she told herself, while trying not to think about how the grunting hippos that were previously on the shore and the yipping painted dogs that surrounded them, now seemed likeable in comparison to her current situation.
Ninety seconds, start your internal clock, then you try to break free from this beast, was her plan. Ninety—eighty-nine—eighty-eight—eighty-seven. Her half-full lungs ached for breath.
Directionally, she could feel herself being pulled further from shore. The pressure on her ears was building as well—signaling the creature was taking her deeper.
Forty-four, my lucky number, was Sally’s last thought as the croc began its death roll. Her body was now rapidly misfiring. Instinctively she wanted to fight, but instead she resisted. There was an electric tingling in her hands and the heat in her face ignited the body with a strange sense of euphoria.
Silence now became deafening. Her count had ceased. She was trying to picture Rusty’s face but could not hold onto the image. Briefly, he had been welcoming her home.
Sally’s final attempt to break free was feeble at best. Her meager effort was more of a jerk or a twitch. There was no pain—only the final tick of time—marking her final moment in history.
This place feels strangely remote yet inhabited. Is there no sunlight in the future? Only this hot orange ball, casting a ray, burning my feet? But my body parts are very much alive. Is this what it feels like to have your soul exist throughout infinity? Has someone washed my soul? Is this why my body is drenched? Who are these figures standing at the fringe of darkness? Do they know my hands are bound? Wait—what?!
Suddenly, there was a shadow of a human crouched next to her. Firelight was crawling up the being’s leg. “Someone told me about that tattoo,” said Sally. “The king of the river—Nyami Nyami—his flesh is ours.”
“Shhhhhh—be still, Eagle One,” whispered Winifred Dixie, now an inch away from Sally’s face—a lethal knife in her hand. “Stay silent, or you’re a dead woman.”
Speaking of staying silent, after explicitly being told to stay on the island, Rusty Flathers was balled up in the back of Ellie Waylayer’s float plane, tighter than an Army surplus duffel bag packed with enough outdoor gear to survive a week in the Canadian bush.
There was a tackle box pressed against his temple—a high lift jack tweaked against his kneecap—and to make matters worse—when Ellie scrambled into the plane she unloaded a summer’s worth of gear over the pilot’s seat on top of the hidden passenger.
An oven, a red-hot blazing oven, thought Rusty. This is what a basted turkey—squished into a pan—temp cranked to 450 degrees—feels like at Thanksgiving. Good gravy it’s HOT in the back of this plane.
The last thing he could hear was the pilot’s door latching shut. Lying in the rear of the plane, behind the tuned exhaust, he estimated his ears were three inches away from the pipe. This was good news in comparison to the lasting ear damage he would have from takeoff that required full throttle and approximately three thousand RPMs of engine thrust.
Twenty minutes into the flight, Rusty bit down on his tongue to keep from shouting with pain. Either Ellie was an incredibly terrible pilot, or the flight turbulence was unforgiving. Between the tackle box continuously pounding against his eye socket—it felt warranted to take the brunt of the damage in this location versus his temple—and a now severely cramping left hamstring—he wanted to scream aloud, “Stowaway! You’re killing your Stowaway!”
Instead, the Plano tackle box popped open, and a number eight Rapala Original Shad with purple stripes on the lateral line came flying out mid-air. Thankfully, as it whirred above his head, he swatted it away from his mouth—landing the front treble hook securely in his left nostril with the rear embedding in the opposite cheekbone.
“Son-of-a-bee-sting!” he shouted through pinched nostrils—exposing himself on-board the plane. Even for Rusty, it was no small feat to pin his nose against the side of his face with a flying fishing lure.
With immense pain he continued to wail, “I’m hooked! I’m hooked!”
Ellie Waylayer—cool as a crappie in springtime—remained seated—hands at the yoke—eyes peering straight ahead. “Sure took you long enough, Flathers. You were caught the second I left the dock.”
–To Be Continued—
